The Island in the Night
by PrsctrTails
Summary: Damon is a US Marshall called to investigate a gruesome murder on what maybe be the richest island in the world. Elena and her friends are writers on vacation. The group quickly learns that even bloods bonds can sometimes be sacrificed. A crime/mystery/horror AU&AH. Will be using many characters and many pairings.


It was always bothersome to him when the sky was both clear enough and black enough to make the sea match it in every aspect and shade. Such an immense and endless noir sea was not good for his nerves, no matter how hard he was working to mask it. The dull whooshing and swishing of the chopper's rotor blades only added to the overall oddness of the situation. He ran a hand over his about 15 days worth of stubble and drifted into his shaggy hair that probably wasn't within specific regulations. Then again, nothing about him was.

Tired blue eyes drifted out the window of the chopper, an Augusta A190A painted in the unmistakable silver and white of Lockwood Enterprises. He sighed as he tried to find some form of solace in his contrived suspense novel of an assignment. He didn't normally despise work, just when it veered into his already scant vacation days. Still drifting, he scanned the black pool beneath for any semblance of land. He would have asked the pilot, but he seemed so tight lipped that Damon wasn't at all sure he would get a response from someone who appeared to be paid to not blink. It was all so very quiet, save for the dull metronome whoosh of the rotors. Damon hated quiet.

"We'll be landing in five minutes," the pilot said, pulling Damon from his glaring and pontifications. He leaned slightly and finally saw the almost out of place island. Sporadic blotches of gold and silver light where splintered between what he assumed were very tall and thick trees. The night kept him from being able to discern any detail, thus leaving him with the rumors he had heard about the place.

To hear people talk about it, West Oaks was a modern East Egg from Gatsby, except that no one had ever been known to share any secrets about it, which gave it a sort of unwelcoming vibe despite its singular purpose as a secluded escape for the outlandishly wealthy. Had he not come from an old and respected Virginia family, Damon might have felt bad about his salary of $73,500 dollars a year. Though, carrying a gun and a badge every day was always something of a self-esteem booster.

He felt the helicopter's speed reduce as he braced a little in his chair against the seatbelt. His familiarity with air travel was largely limited to commercial jets, so a craft small enough to magnify every pitch and wobble back dropped against infinite night was enough to give him a few deep gulps. The buzzing of the lowering hydraulics and landing gear added another sound he wasn't in tune with. The contact of rubber against H marked cement was finally enough for him to let out a prolonged, nerve-expelling breath. Haphazardly undoing his seat harness and grabbing his luggage, he looked up to see someone sliding open the chopper door.

In the darkness, Damon could see the figure was in a white polo with white pants and, of course, white boat shoes. Exhausted or not, he had to try and avoid rolling his eyes at what looked like a fraternity uniform gone too far. Damon wasn't sure if the fellow deserved pity or latent anger due to the fact that he was probably being paid way too much to dress like a svelte marshmallow.

"Are you the police officer?" A feminine voice asked, hidden by the looming shadow of a soaring pine tree.

"Deputy United States Marshal," Damon said, doing his best to enlighten, not correct.

"Well, whichever," she said, stepping forward. Damon would've guessed she was late 40s and probably one of the wealthier denizens of the island. He was able to pick up decently veiled disgust on her face, either for his presence there or his flannel shirt, jeans and ash-black boots. Either way, he couldn't make himself care.

"US Marshall," he repeated. "And you guys did call me,"

"We don't know who called you, actually," she said, turning away from him and walking. So, it was his presence and not his sartorial splendor that had made the natives restless.

"Well, calling the authorities tends to be the right thing to do when someone is murdered," Damon said, not content to let himself be bossed around by a rich socialite in a pantsuit at two in the morning. He followed behind her, careful to not get himself caught in her bitch-powered gravitational field.

"We had someone handling it here," she sighed. "I'm Carol Lockwood, by the way."

"Damon Salvatore," he said, grimacing at the fact the women was associated with one of the world's richest companies. "And who was investigating it? Someone's private security?"

"Something like that," Carol said, clearly annoyed. She abruptly stopped and gestured towards a few years old black Range Rover that was parked down slope. "The GPS is programmed to get you to the house you'll be staying in. You'll be sharing it with writers or reporters or whatever they are."

"I see, thank you," Damon said, yawning. "Also, whoever is handling whatever the Hell you all did here, get me their files and notes," he instructed, adjusting his shirt with casual purpose to show his holstered gun and star-shaped badge. Carol kept her outright angry eyes on him as he descended to get to the SUV. He, by virtue of first rate emotional repression, was able to keep his more snide comments to himself, saving them for another night. He deposited his bags of luggage in the back, still wondering what he had gotten himself into. This thought, and a few angry others, dominated his mind as he got into the driver's seat and tapped on the GPS.

Soon enough, he found himself navigating the island's lamp-lit lanes aided by moonlight. Errant swathes of light would sometimes illuminate enough angles of a mansion to cause Damon to stop completely and gawk at them with a slightly slack jaw. The whole place was like something out of a Jackie Collins novel, with the foreboding silence to match.

The dash-mounted GPS chimed with a pleasant automated message that he had reached his destination, though he sort of hadn't. Damon saw trees pushing their way over an iron gate, its barred doors open. His college lit classes reminded him that this was how a great many Henry James and Wilkie Collins horror novels began. Well, at least he had a gun. He reasoned that was marginally reassuring.

Foot pressing down on the accelerator slightly, the Ranger Rover lurched forward and weaved its way down the paved path. If this was just the driveway, Damon thought, then he was basically Alice just gone through the Looking Glass. He leaned forward every few yards, trying to get a better view of what he was driving towards, suspicions thinking it wasn't going to be a cozy cottage.

The headlight were able to glance over an ornate fountain in the middle of a circular driveway before illuminating a residence that looked fit for a minor European royal to call home. The expansive rectangular frame was decidedly 1700s in flavor, its balconies drew the eye up to the pointed rooftops. Damon felt as if the manor's many front windows were eyes trying to get a good look at him. In between being caught in awe, he awkwardly slammed on the brakes, a screech the result. From the corner of his eye, he was able to register a light on the third floor flicker on, but the action didn't register.

Damon exited the vehicle and slung his luggage over his shoulder before ascending the handful of stairs and knocking on the front door. He closed his eyes and heard rustling, low-shouting, laughing and finally some 'shushing' before the door creaked open.

1,2,3,4 staggeringly gorgeous girls next door stood inside, openly giving Damon a once-over, but in a far friendlier manner than Mrs. Lockwood had.

"I'm the cop," Damon smirked, back in an element he wasn't so uncomfortable in. He returned their half-amused glances with one of his own, not caring in the least that his hair was a shaggy mess. "Well, the Marshall, actually."

"Like the Old West?" said one, a blonde with an infectious smile.

"Something like that," he said. "May I come in?"

"Oh, yea," said another, a somewhat skeptical looking young lady with light brown hair.

"Some really angry woman told me to come here," Damon explained, boots cutely thudding against the marble floors of the foyer.

"Pearls? Angry face? Stuck-up?" Asked the skeptical looking young lady again.

"All those to a T," Damon growled in agreement, turning to study all three of them again. He stuck his hand out. "Damon Salvatore, Deputy United States Marshall."

The four nodded before the blonde spoke up again, voice chipper despite the lateness of the hour. "I'm Caroline Forbes. The one who invited you in was Vicki Donovan, the one silently judging you is Bonnie Bennett and the one who is just being, well, silent is Elena Gilbert."

At this, Elena snorted a little and pushed her bangs out of her eyes. Even for someone in a low-brow profession, Damon caught the few strands of pink and purple in her wavy hair. What Damon also caught was how each of these girls were in tank-tops and short-shorts of varying colors. He saw no need to draw attention to this wonderful, and in his mind, earned gift.

"I was told you all are writers or reporters?" Damon asked, yawning a little.

Caroline nodded. "Elena and I write for The New Yorker, Bonnie works for Vanity Fair and Vicki writes for the Associated Press. And yes, we know we don't look like writers."

"Thank God," Damon replied. "You all seem in the know, so I'm guessing the whole island knows someone was murdered here. I mean, that is why I'm stuck here. I didn't know people this rich committed their own crimes."

The joke went over well with the crowd. Damon was invited to set his bags down and follow them into the living room. He plopped down on the couch, briefly catching a look from Vicki. "You're dressed kind of...not like a cop." she said.

"Perk of my job," Damon shrugged. "How many people are here on this island?"

"Right now?" Elena said, still studying him. "More than 20, less than 50."

The quintet fell into pleasant small talk, each trying to show the other that they were educated and formal but not like the older residents of the island. After a polite 15 minutes, Damon cleared his throat. "Tell me about who was killed." he said, less of a question and more of an invitation.

The four girls went silent on cue.

"Well," said Vicki, spinning a lock of hair around her finger. "here's hoping you don't scare easy."


End file.
